


Life Is Just a Bowl of Cherries

by MimiWritesHerFandoms



Series: Dean Winchester and Donna Hanscum [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Major Character Injury, Mild Blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-09-01 02:28:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8603653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MimiWritesHerFandoms/pseuds/MimiWritesHerFandoms
Summary: Dean shows up at Donna’s after a hunt.





	

 

Donna was exhausted. It was nearly midnight and she’d just gotten off after working eighteen hours; one of her deputies had called in sick and another’s wife had gone into labor, so she’d had no choice but to help cover their shifts. She didn’t even bother to turn on the lights downstairs, just slipped in the back door and went straight up the stairs to her bedroom.

She was halfway down the hallway when she heard music quietly playing from her bedroom, an old song, something from that oldies station she loved to listen to. She stopped, listening, ears straining to catch the slightest noise besides the music.

She put her hand on her gun, pulling it free of the holster, slipping slowly down the hall, on high alert. The radio had been off when she left the house, she was sure of it. Someone was here. She could see light beneath her closed bedroom door, hear the radio, but nothing else.

Donna slowly turned the knob, easing the door open, stepping in, leading with her gun.

Dean was sitting in the chair by the window, illuminated by the light from the open bathroom door. Or maybe passed out was a better word. He didn't look good, in fact, he looked terrible. The right side of his face was bruised and bloody, one eye puffy and swollen, scrapes and cuts across the knuckles on both hands. His brow was furrowed in pain, even asleep. The fabric on one arm of his flannel shirt was ripped to shreds; deep, bloody claw marks marred the freckled skin of his upper arm. She could see drops of blood splattered across his jacket and the boots that were laying on the floor. Mud and grime covered the legs of his jeans, streaked across his arms and his face.

“Hey,” he murmured, stirring when the light hit his eyes, squinting at her, a smile that was more of a grimace on his face.

“What the cuss?” she muttered, tucking her gun back in its holster as she hurried across the room to crouch beside him. “What was it? What did this?”

“Werewolves,” he mumbled. His voice was thick and raspy, as if it hurt to talk. When he swallowed, Donna saw him wince.

“Where’s Sam?” Donna asked, concern for the younger Winchester coloring her words.

“Motel, a couple hours west,” he muttered. “He’s fine.” He sighed heavily and let his head fall back against the chair, staring at her, those green eyes of his flashing with something she couldn’t describe, but something she could definitely feel, feel warming every inch of her.

She rose to her feet, shucking off her jacket and gun, stopping just long enough to hang them in the closet. A glance out her bedroom window showed her the Impala parked in her front drive, under the tree. Dean had quit parking in the back months ago, not caring who knew about them, the two of them no longer a secret he wanted to hide. If she’d turned down the street rather than the alley, she would have known he was here.

She stepped into the bathroom and turned on the shower, twisting the knob all the way to hot. She reached beneath the sink to grab the first aid kit she kept there, praying there was more than just a few bandaids and some Neosporin in it. She tossed it on the counter beside a couple of clean towels she pulled from the shelves. She paused for a second, eyes closed, steam billowing around her, trying to get herself in the right headspace for this. She’d let the emotions come later, after she’d taken care of Dean.

She helped him from the chair, lifting with her legs, stumbling a bit as he leaned on her. Dean was a wall of muscle, of strength, thick and solid. She somehow managed to get him into the bathroom, propping him against the counter while she gently pulled off layer after layer of torn and bloody clothes. She had to bite her tongue to stop from groaning as more and more bruises came to light, her concern for him growing with every piece of clothing that hit the floor. Once she had him completely stripped, she maneuvered him into the shower and yanked the curtain closed.

She took his spot at the counter, watching him through the opaque curtain, her arms crossed, chewing at her lower lip. When she noticed he wasn’t moving, just standing with his hands splayed on the wall, letting the water run over him, she quickly yanked off her uniform, pulled her hair into a bun on the top of her head, and stepped into the shower with him.

He glanced over his shoulder at her, smiling wearily. He dropped his head, moaning in pain as he shifted, raising his arm to reach for the bar of soap. Donna pushed his hand away, instead grabbing it herself, lathering it between her hands until soap bubbles were dropping to the shower floor and swirling down the drain amidst the grimey water.

She started at his shoulders, running her hands over the tight muscles, down the center of his back, kneading at the knots along his spine. He leaned into her a little, not too much, but enough to let Donna know that he was okay with what she was doing, that he was comfortable. She kissed him, her lips trailing after the soap, drifting over the freckles sprinkled across his back, freckles she wanted to count while lying on a blanket beneath the warm sun. The image flitted briefly through her head and she wondered if she would ever get the chance to do just that. A tear slipped down her cheek as the fear she constantly felt broke through her barely-held-in-check control. She tilted her back, let the water hit her face, grateful it would cover her tears.

Dean turned, his arms sliding around her, his body slumping so he could put his head on her shoulder. He winced when she ran her hands down his arms and over the deep cuts in his bicep, turning his head to nuzzle his nose against her neck.

“Donna,” he breathed, his hands on her waist, the calloused tips scratching the soft skin.

“I know,” she murmured. And she did know, knew that whatever had happened had shaken him, it had shaken him bad. He didn’t have to tell her, didn’t have to say anything, because she knew. She always knew.

Dean gradually relaxed, letting Donna take control, her hands traveling over every inch of his body, caressing him, massaging him, her touch soothing as she washed the dirt, grime, and blood from his body.

When the water turned toward tepid, she reached across him to shut off the shower, and pushed open the curtain, shivering as the cold air hit her. She grabbed the towels from the counter, handing one to Dean, watching him closely as he gingerly ran it over his body, slipped it around his waist, and tucked it in place.

She took his hand, tugging gently, leading him to the closed toilet, pushing him down to sit on it. She opened the first aid kit, relieved to see several rolls of gauze as well as disinfectant. She tucked her towel between her breasts and kneeled beside him. She worked quickly to make sure the wound on his arm was clean and dry, then she wrapped it with the gauze.

Dean watched her, his eyes heavy, heavy with more than exhaustion, with whatever he’d seen, whatever he had done, weighing heavily on him. When she was finished, she patted his arm, and rose to her feet. His arms came up, sliding around her and pulling her close, his forehead resting on her stomach.

Donna brushed her fingers through his damp hair, her heart aching for him. After a few minutes, he pushed himself to his feet, her hand in his, fingers tangled together, pulling her after him. He kissed her, then he let the towel fall to the floor, collapsing face first onto the bed. She dropped her own towel to the floor beside his and grabbed one of her oversized t-shirts from the chair, slipping it on before climbing onto the bed beside him.

Dean shifted slightly, just enough to put his arms around her, pulling her close so he could rest his head in her lap. The light stubble on his cheeks scratched at her thighs, his warm breath blew across her skin. She rested her hand on his head, her fingers drifting lazily over the bruises on his face.

“Dean,” she whispered, the question unspoken.

“Tomorrow,” he murmured.

Donna shook her head, sighing as she relaxed against the stack of pillows, absentmindedly brushing her fingers through his hair, quiet music playing from the radio on the other side of the room.

 _Life is just a bowl of cherries;_   
_Don't make it serious;_   
_Life's too mysterious._   
_You work, you save, you worry so,_   
_But you can't take your dough when you go, go, go._   
_So keep repeating it's the berries;_   
_The strongest oak must fall._   
_The sweet things in life_   
_To you were just loaned,_   
_So how can you lose what you've never owned?_   
_Life is just a bowl of cherries,_ _  
So live and laugh at it all._


End file.
